


a sense of pride;

by unintentionallyangsty



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Issues, Family Secrets, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, basically just some good old fashioned Grunkle-Nephew bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 07:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15359664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unintentionallyangsty/pseuds/unintentionallyangsty
Summary: Post-Roadside Attraction, Stan awakens in the middle of the night to find Dipper recovering from a nightmare. This is the conversation that follows.





	a sense of pride;

**Author's Note:**

> blatant self-projection whomst?

Stan groaned and shifted over in the tiny RV’s “master bed” (read: sofa) for what seemed like the thirtieth time this past hour, feeling something in his back shift with a disheartening _pop_ as he did so.

It had been a while since Stan had used the old RV at all, and it was really his sudden urge to give the kids some quality time with their Favorite Grunkle before the official “end of summer” that had prompted its use in the first place.

An urge that had absolutely thing to do with the favor a certain twin of his own had suddenly seemed to hold in said kids’ eyes.

Stan grumbled moodily to himself and turned over again, shifting so that he could study the ceiling as an outlet for the sudden wave of frustration that hit him at the thought.

Ford wasn’t good for those kids, he reflected, nodding resolutely to himself as if to solidify the theory.

He wasn’t sure what had been going on last week, when Mabel had come home with her exhausted friends in tow, clothes torn and covered in…questionable substances--but he was sure that Ford’s influence was heavily involved, and he didn’t like it.

And Dipper…Hell, the kid had been impressionable from the minute he’d set foot into Gravity Falls. He followed Wendy’s group of freeloaders around like a lost puppy begging for attention; even scrambled for Stan’s own approval, on occasion.

To see him so infatuated with Stanford Pines, a man who had shown himself (on multiple occasions) to be just as prone to fits of obsessive behavior as the twelve-year-old himself was, was turning out to be…unsettling, to say the least.

The kid had been jumpier than usual lately, too, Stan considered with a frown. And this sudden obsession with forgetting about Wendy…

Stan knew Dipper was prone to beating himself up over stupid mistakes, even those that weren’t within his power to change. However, he had a big head. He bounced back with little trouble, at the very worst.

Recently, though...he’d been easier to knock down--slower to get back up after life dealt him a sucker punch to the gut.

Stans frown grew, and he sighed heavily, shifting back to lying on his side, his gut churning unpleasantly at the thought.

These kids were his responsibility, and his alone.

And he was failing them.

Despite Stan’s best efforts to remain quiet in his restless state, it seemed as if the noise had awoken one of his many small companions, as something on the other side of the curtain between the “Master Bedroom” (again, made up of the sofa and a small lavatory) and the rest of the R.V. shuffled, signalling somebody having crawled out of one of their “beds” (one of the sleeping bags scattered along the R.V.’s floor).

Stan tensed and attempted to quiet his breathing, assuming when no further sound presented itself that it was one of Mabel’s little friends getting up to get (another) bottle of water from the stash beneath the kitchen sink.

It was only the very soft, almost unnoticeable, shift of the curtain Stan currently lay facing that clued him into anything having changed on the other side.

He paused, holding his breath until the almost silent sound of snuffling came from the other side of the vehicle.

With a heavy sigh, Stan sat up, rubbing irritably at one eye with one hand and pulling the curtain back quietly with the other.

For a long moment his eyes refused to adjust to the R.V.’s darkness, and Stan simply peered into the room blearily, noting with some satisfaction that the small Children Shaped lumps in each sleeping bag scattered along the ground had remained in place, except--

Except for Dipper’s.

Stan blinked, squinting at the empty sleeping bag that clearly belonged to his nephew (it was the only one not covered in copious amounts of somewhat hazardous looking craft materials) for a couple more seconds before the gravity of the situation truly set in.

With a jolt, Stan jerked his head toward the door, noting over the panicked hammering of his own heart that the flimsy lock was still slid into place, meaning the kid couldn’t have left the R.V. (and subsequently wandered into the dark, lonely night) through that particular exit.

Before he could work himself into too much of a panic, a soft scuffling noise drew Stan’s attention to the driver’s compartment, where a small sock-covered foot could just be seen peeking out from behind the passenger’s seat, before it disappeared hastily.

Stan released a slow breath, more out of relief than anything, and tried to calm the racing of his pulse as he crossed the space (as quietly as humanly possible, given that he seemed to step on some form of snack food every couple steps) and made his way toward his misplaced nephew.

“Kid, you gotta warn someone if you’re gonna be changing sleeping spots.” Stan muttered when he finally reached the seat, kneeling down despite the protesting groan his knees gave at the movement in order to find whatever corner Dipper had chosen to inhabit. “I thought you’d flown the coop.”

When silence was the only answer he received, Stan raised a curious eyebrow and leaned in further, his eyes adjusting to the new level of darkness enough to see Dipper curled into the farthest corner of the passenger’s side, the top of his brown curls brushing the dusty bottom of the glove box as he seemed to shudder slightly at the new invasion of his space.

Something like shock must have registered on Stan’s face for, after a long and tense silence, Dipper blinked blearily, and seemed to attempt to shake himself out of his own fog.

“Gr-Grunkle Stan.” he muttered, voice low and wobbling, even then. “Sorry. I didn’t--didn’t mean to wake anyone up...”

He sounded ashamed, almost, and the way he began to hide his face behind his knees only proved to solidify the image.

Stan felt his heart begin to sink like a stone, but forced himself to shrug casually rather than react. “That’s fine, kid.” he returned, noting the surprised expression Dipper took on at the easy dismissal. “You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

Dipper blinked again, clearly not having expecting the question, before something in his expression shifted into something more controlled.

“It’s nothing.” He replied, clearing his throat slightly at the tail end of the sentence. “Sorry I woke you up. You can go back to bed now.”

Something about the dismissal irked Stan in a way he couldn’t identify, and he couldn’t hold back an answering scowl, regretting it almost immediately when Dipper’s eyes widened in apprehension, and he shrunk back further into his corner.

There was a long and tense pause, the only sound being Dipper’s harsh and wet breathing, before Stan let out a heavy sigh and shifted so he was sat cross legged across from his cowering nephew.

“I’ll level with you, kid.” he murmured, “I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do here. I’m not a parent, and I’ve never been very good at this whole…’comfort’ thing, but--”

“You don’t have to comfort me.” Dipper interrupted icily, frowning sharply at the words.

Stan raised an eyebrow, somewhat taken aback at the harsh tone he’d been met with. “Wha--”

“If I’m such a _burden_ , you don’t _have_ to comfort me.” Dipper elaborated, the wobble in his voice belying the stoniness of his expression. “I don’t need to be comforted, anyway.”

“Damnit, Dipper.” Stan snapped out, the curse dropping into the sentence before he could himself. “You’re too stubborn for your own good. All I’m askin’ you to do is trust me here and--”

“Trust no one.” Dipper replied automatically, almost robotically--his voice low and sounding so unlike it usually did that Stan inhaled sharply, shocked into silence.

Dipper himself seemed almost shocked by the outburst, as well, and his brow furrowing in what looked like honest confusion almost as soon as the words had left him.

“Alright, kid.” Stan grit out, forcing himself to recover quickly. “I won’t ask you what’s been going on, though you’ve made it perfectly clear that you’ve been spending far too much time with Poindexter for your own good.”

Dipper’s face darkened slightly at the words, but Stan was angry past the point of caring, now.

“I will ask you one more time what’s goin’ on now, though.” Stan continued, “You can’t tell me you’re crammed back here for fun.”

“It’s--”

“Don’t tell me that it’s nothing,” Stan interrupted the boy, his tone low and level with warning. “Don’t. You ‘n I both know that I’m smarter than that.”

Dipper opened his mouth, looking for a moment like he was going to protest again, before he closed it again and exhaled slowly in what sounded far too much like defeat for Stan’s liking. “It was just a dream.” he replied. finally, resting his arms on his knees and leaning one cheek against them. “It woke me up and freaked me out a bit. I’m over it now, though. It’s fine.”

Stan frowned at the easy coolness the kid’s voice had taken on. “You wanna elaborate on that?”

Dipper quirked a brow. “Why does it matter?”

“It _matters_ because you’re obviously not _‘_ fine’, now.” Stan shot back, wondering if he should feel guilty for being so easily pulled into a battle of wits with a twelve-year-old. He paused, and tried to school his features into something more encouraging. “Sometimes, talking about it helps, kid. Trust me.”

“Is that what _you_ do?” Dipper shot back, sitting up suddenly as his face morphed into something angrier--something a little more accusatory. “Did you ‘talk about it’ when you spent all those nights working on a giant _portal_ underneath the shack? Did you try and ‘talk about it' to _us_?! When you were leading a secret double life? Hiding a secret _family member_?! When do _you_ ever try to talk about it?”

“Whoa, kid.” Stan cut in, raising both hands in what he hoped was a placating manner and leaning back slightly. “You gotta calm do--”

“Why should I?” Dipper demanded, angrier than Stan could ever remember seeing him, his cheeks tinged a hot red. “You--you _and_ Ford!” he continued, “Both keeping secrets and--and _creating_ secrets and I--I’m sick of it!” his breath was coming in sharp jerks now, his face registering something akin to confusion before he powered on, “You two are just as bad as each other! I shouldn’t have to listen to _anything_ either of you say!”

Stan grimaced, watching as his nephew struggled to gain control of his breathing, before pushing his own irritation at the accusations aside with a huff.

“Listen, Dipper.” He began, trying not to reel back as his nephew pegged him with a somewhat wild glare. “I’m not gonna debate this with you right now, kid. But I need you to calm down. Can you do that for me?”

Dipper furrowed his brow, like the request confused him, but he shook his head in a sharp movement.

“Why should I?” he repeated fiercely, voice dropping into a low and breathless whisper.

“Because I care about you,” Stan replied immediately. “And I don’t wanna see you hurting yourself like this, kid.”

Dipper furrowed his brow, but made no attempt to reply, so Stan continued, “I know you’re angry.” he sighed. “I know you have a right to be angry at me. I haven’t been the best caretaker, have I?”

Dipper frowned, but made no reply, something Stan considered a small victory, if anyone was asking.

“So I’ll make a deal with you.” Stan continued, hastily moving on when something uncomfortably close to sheer, blind panic seemed to spark in Dipper’s eyes, at the words. “You tell me what’s _really_ got you so worked up, and there’ll be no more secrets in the family.”

Dipper paused, before raising a skeptical eyebrow, prompting a soft snort from Stan. “No secrets comin’ from me, anyway.” he amended.

The words seemed to have some of the desired effect for, after a long moment, Dipper seemed to deflate slightly, though the tenseness around his eyes and in his small shoulders didn’t let up.

( _“Then again,”_ Stan thought vaguely, _“that might have just always been there.”_ )

“It’s Ford.”

Stan reeled back slightly, shocked beyond words at the sudden admission, and the way Dipper’s eyes began to well at the very words he seemed to have had to force out.

“What about ‘im?” Stan prompted as his stomach sunk slightly, when it seemed the kid wasn’t prepared to continue.

“He--” Dipper paused, forcing himself to take a deep, albeit shaky, breath before continuing, “He keeps s-secrets. Dangerous ones.”

There was a brief pause in which Stan had to force himself not to lash out immediately, recalling his warning to Ford, _“Stay away from those kids…”_

He’d told ol’ Sixer, hadn’t he? Explicitly stated his one and only demand. And here _he_ was, planning on giving up his home of 30 years at the end of the summer, abandoning what was essentially his life’s work, his hometown, what had basically become his family (not that he’d ever let on)--and Ford couldn’t even hold up his one end of the deal.

No matter how estranged they’d become, Stan silently resigned himself to the fact that he and ol’ Fordsy would be having words as soon as they were back in town.

“I assume you can’t tell me much about these ‘secrets’?” He questioned wearily, resigning himself to the answer before he even had it.

Dipper paused, then shook his head minutely.

“Even though they’re the things keepin’ you up at night?”

Dipper blinked and eyed him warily before nodding warily, maintaining eye contact all the while.

“Even though they’re what’s been givin’ you the nightmares this whole time?” Stan forced out, despite the fact that he half wanted to keep the sentiment to himself.

Dipper seemed to blink in shock. “How did you--”

“I hear things from up in that attic of yours.” Stan interrupted hastily, “You haven’t been sleeping right since before the portal, am I right?”

Dipper’s lip quivered at the string of questions, but he shook his head in what Stan took as an affirmation.

“Alright, kid.” Stan breathed, “I got one more question for ya’.”

A nod.

Stan took a deep breath before continuing, laying out what had been bearing heavily on his mind for a long while, before he could take it back. “It’s been since the sock puppet incident, hasn’t it?”

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Another nod, maybe--or Dipper’s complete and utter rejection of him, and the entire conversation.

He was a private sort of kid, after all, and Stan was momentarily worried that he’d pushed too far.

What he didn’t expect, however, was for his nephew to burst into sudden tears, a wail leaving his throat before either had a chance to fully react.

“Okay, kid!” Stan cried, guilt and something close to near-overwhelming protective-instinct driving him to dive forward and pull a now sobbing Dipper into a firm embrace. “Okay! I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I’m _tired_!” Dipper gasped in-between hiccups and sobs, his small hands rising to clench tightly at Stan’s shirt--the sudden words sounding as if they were a long time coming.

Like they’d been pent-up inside for far too long.

“Okay.” Stan repeated, his fingers carding frantically through the hysterical boy’s hair. “You can go back to bed. I’m sorry for askin’. _Geez_ kid. It’s--”

Dipper shook his head sharply, bringing Stan’s jumble of words to an abrupt halt. “’m _tired_.” he insisted, words muffled by snot and tears, “I--I dunno what to do. Grunkle S _-Staaan_.”

Stan sighed, easing back gently so that he was sat leaned against the passenger side seat, Dipper practically curled in his lap.

“I don’t know much about that, kiddo.” he murmured softly, “I only know as much as you’ll tell me.” ( _‘as much as Sixer will let you tell me,’_ He thought, a little bitterly). “But I do know what you need. You need to calm down. You need to start trustin’ your family. We’re here to help you, kid.”

Dipper gasped softly, whimpering a little before he continued to cry miserably. Despite this, Stan knew the message had gotten through clearly, and he opted to shush the trembling child in a soothing silence, rather than continue to press the issue.

It was a long while, but Dipper finally calmed to the point of his tears being dried up, his sobs less hysterical and eventually dwindling down into soft hiccups and gasps.

“You feelin’ any better now?” Stan questioned, craning his neck down to peer into his Dipper’s weary gaze from where his nephew sat curled against his chest.

Dipper shrugged halfheartedly, cheeks coloring slightly as he seemed to take in his position. “My stomach hurts.” he admitted after a moment, grimacing as he began to sit up. “And my head.”

“Cryin’ll do that to ya’, after a while.” Stan admitted, “A bottle of water before bed should fix you up. But Dipper,” he reached out and placed a heavy hand on his nephew’s shoulder, gaze stern and brooking no argument. “Are you feeling any _better_?”

Dipper seemed to sigh heavily, like he knew the question had been coming, and pursed his lips in thought before answering, slowly, “A little bit. I think things might get better.”

Stan nodded, accepting the answer for the time being.

There was only so much “talking about it” could fix, after all.

He had one last question, however. One he knew he couldn’t let lie before the both of them went back to their respectful and prideful silences;

“How long have you been feelin’ this way, kid?”

How long had the negative emotions and rejected thoughts been pent up inside his small, twelve-year-old head, waiting for the right moment to pour out--and for the right person to sit down and actually _listen_?

How long had his nephew, this _child_ , been feeling the feelings Stan had so often found himself fighting these past 30 _years_.

Dipper stiffened at the question, clever even now and catching onto the meaning of the words immediately, his gaze flickering over Stan’s face before he huffed and scrubbed at his own face wearily.

“I don’t now.” he answered, softly and wearily, in what Stan believed to be the most honest manner he could possibly manage at the moment.

For now, it was enough.

With one final, weary sigh, Stan stood, offering a hand down to his small companion.

“Well,” he admitted, smiling softly, “You held up your end of the deal. I think it’s about time we both hit the hay, don’t you?”

He didn’t miss the way Dipper’s face paled at the words (the conversation was beginning to feel seriously like navigating a minefield), but his nephew managed a small smile in return, accepting the offered hand and rising to his feet.

“I guess so.” he replied, shrugging again before he murmured, “Grunkle Stan? Thanks.”

Stan, despite his best efforts to remain Composed and Cool about the whole situation, found himself grinning at the words.

“No problem, kiddo.” he finally managed, ruffling Dipper’s soft hair instead of acknowledging the sudden, irritating stinging behind his eyes. “Anytime.”

Dipper grinned back, more genuine than Stan had seen it this evening, and wandered off toward his sleeping bag, leaving Stan gazing fondly at his retreating form.

“Anytime.”

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't watched Gravity Falls in months. this was just sitting in my unfinished drafts and suddenly struck a chord with me...can't believe myself honestly. 
> 
> (find me (and feel free to yell at me about podcasts and/or cartoons [here!](http://elijahwoodnot.tumblr.com))


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